


Big Spiders Do It Better

by chewysugar



Category: Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, BAMF Mary Jane Watson, Beards, Body Image, F/M, Femdom, Kissing, Kitchen Sex, Masturbation, Morning Sex, Naked Male Clothed Female, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Plus Size Man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:47:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22205101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: After all the things they've been through together, MJ isn't about to let something as trivial as Peter's body type get in the way of their relationship, or his happiness.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Mary Jane Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	Big Spiders Do It Better

**Author's Note:**

> I went searching for BBM romance books online. Some clever little sausage on a forum said that you can’t describe bigger dudes in a way that makes them attractive, hence they have no presence in the genre. 
> 
> And I went, “I swear from the bottom of my motherfucking and fatherfucking heart that I will prove you woefully wrong.”
> 
> CW: There’s mentions of body image issues and even an eating disorder in this. If those are your triggers, maybe give this a pass.

Headlines on that cold January morning weren’t of what most New Yorkers expected. Gone were the doomsaying prophecies of imminent destruction. Stories about the latest break in, assault and petty crime were pushed back to the recesses of page four. 

Splashed, instead, across every front and home page was the headline (and various permutations thereof) MARY JANE’S MEAN RIGHT HOOK. Accompanying this, a photo that spoke beyond the usual thousand words and went straight for a million. 

It had been taken at a gala for some museum or other. It depicted a rather large crowd of both decked out celebrities and their sober suited security detail. And focus forward, two woman: one with flaming red hair and flawless pale skin, and the other an indistinct mass of brunette curls in the act of falling to the red carpet. The redhead’s face was a mask of rage, and her fist was rearing back for the second of the titular shots to the head that, due to intercession by the security guards present, hadn’t come.

The woman in question—Mary Jane Watson—scanned the front page of Buzzfeed that morning with a smirk of satisfaction. Her hand—the deliverer of justice—didn’t even hurt from the almighty wallop. Luckily the heartless bitch she’d knocked to the ground couldn’t say the same. Julia Edwards—former fitness guru in a decade when shame was the name of the game—was still, allegedly, nursing her broken nose. 

She was threatening to sue, of course. But MJ wasn’t worried. She had lawyers in high places—Foggy Nelson and Matt Murdock to name two. Witnesses were already attesting to the events. It tickled Mary Jane pinker than a peach to read the phrase: “ _Fellow attendee and two time Academy Award nominee Jessica Chastain said that Edwards had made an extremely distasteful comment regarding Miss Watson’s longtime partner and Horizon Labs scientist, Peter Parker. ‘I’m not one to pit women against each other,’ said Chastain. “But frankly, after what Julia said, the [expletive] deserved it.’”_

_Oh, Jess_ , Mary Jane thought as she sipped her coffee. _A fellow auburn sister in arms_. She’d have to remember to send her friend a gift—perhaps some wine or a fruit basket. 

She’d avoided the usual barrage of Tweets and Instagram comments as per her morning rule. For someone with a public profile, it wasn’t smart to expose herself to social media so early in the morning. Besides, the sunrise was proving to be a stunning one. Outside the apartment, pink clouds covered the sky like a blush. Exhaust and smoke from hundreds of buildings hovered low in the below freezing air. A perfect excuse to stay inside—to be cozy. 

And yet, as warm as she felt—as vindicated as being the Fist of Death to Julia Edwards had her feeling—she still wasn’t completely satisfied. The gala had been a lighthearted affair until the miserable cow had walked up with her arms as tight as rocks and her fake dyed hair and dropped a veritable explosive of a comment.

“Glad to see you’re keeping in shape,” she’d said. Then, leaning forward in an almost conspiratorial way, she’d added, “Look, I’ve seen pictures of your boyfriend lately. If he needs any help at all, I’ll be more than happy to train him. Women like you shouldn’t have to live with blimps like that.” 

Just thinking about it made Mary Jane’s pulse race. If only Julia knew who Peter was when the sun went down...

MJ shook her head. It was heartbreaking. Not because Peter had packed on some twenty-five pounds in six or seven months following a truly crippling defeat at the hands of an old enemy. MJ could have cared less if he were thin as a toothpick or big as a whale so long as he was happy. But the fact remained that something more than additional weight had gotten under Peter’s skin. While he’d tried to shed the poundage, it was a difficult yo-yo game.

Felicia, when MJ had conferred with her, had put it in her usual blunt manner. 

“It’s a battle, baby. A snake munching on its own tail. He feels ashamed and bad about himself and that only makes it harder for him to shrug the fluff.” 

It was, MJ thought, completely ludicrous. Certainly men—Men in the general, capitalized, unfair pejorative sense—weren’t hurt by body image shame. Except that, as Julia “I’m A Massive Cunt” Edwards’ comment had proved, they were. The only difference was that guys didn’t talk about it because when had guys ever talked about their oh so shocking and forbidden feelings? When did society—Society in the general, capitalized pejorative sense—ever let them talk about such things? 

Mary Jane glared at a framed photo of Peter, Steve Rogers and Tony Stark magnetized to the fridge. Superheroes, she knew, certainly weren’t helping. Every Tom, Dick and Hassan thought he was supposed to have the physique of Thor. But Thor’s physique wasn’t natural. Thor was a god. Captain America was the result of chemical experimentation and couldn’t retain weight if he gorged himself on In-N-Out every day. Iron Man could afford a fleet of personal trainers.

But Peter? He wasn’t dripping in dinero. Though prone to wiry strength—despite having radioactive blood—he was still a mere mortal living just slightly above the line of poverty. 

If she were to gain ten pounds, she knew, the road would be rather easily paved. She’d be critiqued, yes; but then would come the rally. People would talk about the double standard for women and men—which was true, unfair and sad—and then she’d be left to her own devices. Men, though? Sure, people went after the Jason Momoas of the world for getting a little marshmallowy around the midsection; and sure, it was written off as a dadbod. But that didn’t mean that men still didn’t feel ashamed. That didn’t mean that a standard for beauty didn’t exist. It was part and parcel to toxic masculinity, and as far as she was concerned, just as damaging because it was acceptable not to talk about it. It was acceptable to objectify men. Men were meat. Men were eye candy. Men “deserved” it...

“Dog shit,” MJ said to nothing in particular. She noticed the pain in Peter’s eyes whenever his guard was down. She saw him go through the nightmare thrill ride of disorganized eating. And just the other week, they’d gone to Tony’s penthouse for cocktails, and the ugliest part of the whole affair had made its presence known 

(CW)  
It hadn’t taken long for the ribbing to start. Nearly every one of his so called friends had started poking light at his sudden sturdiness—from Tony to Natasha to Steve to Bruce. And Peter had laughed along with them. MJ, though, had noticed the forcedness of it all. She also noticed that he refused to finish off his food, gone to the bathroom, and the. come out looking flushed and with perfectly minty breath.  
(End CW)

Mary Jane squeezed her coffee mug in a choke hold. It was almost ridiculous, and yet she knew the signs. Like a saddeningly large number of people, she’d run the race of eating disorders as a teenager. Thankfully it had been one more of those reckless pursuits abandoned after Gwen Stacy had lost her life. But to have it come back now—to have it attack her beautiful, brave goofball of a boyfriend? Well, she could fully appreciate now how Spider-Man felt when his old enemies came back from the alleged dead. 

She blinked, alarmed to find her eyes stinging.

This was stupid. It shouldn’t have mattered, and in some regard, it didn’t. She loved the spirit, not the vessel. Yet here Peter was, struggling with his body. The second he started getting back into shape, he’d feel valued again. He’d feel attractive. The jokes from his so-called friends would stop. His squeeze back into the Spider-Man garb would be easier. And the sickest part was, the more base, cave-dweller part of her brain—the part that still primitively looked for certain superficial characteristics in a “mate”—would be relieved. The part of her conditioned to value beauty at all would give itself a high five.

Her head fell to the table. She squeezed her eyes shut. It wasn’t right. Why did things have to be so fucking complicated? Why were people like Julia Edwards allowed to even sink their claws into stupid vulnerabilities in the first place? Why couldn’t the world change itself instead of demanding so much of mere mortals and immortals? If Natasha Romanov were to suddenly gain fifty pounds, sequester herself to a basement and do nothing but play PS4 games all day it would be a travesty. But when it happened to Peter? When it happened to any person with a penis? Suddenly it was a joke. A punchline in the standup of one of those skinny, livewire coke addicted comedians who played the seedy clubs of Soho.

It was industry’s fault, she knew. Industry and capital had taken beauty from a thing which people were meant to feel, and mutated it into something they were expected to be, at all costs. And now society was suffering the disease of it. Now the man she loved was in pain, and wouldn’t even admit it.

_I can fix this_ , she thought, her breathing hard and heavy. _It’s what I do. I fix the things he can’t_...But aside from knocking out the lights of colossal twats like Julia Edwards and using her profile and platform, what could be done about Peter at present? She could strong-arm him into seeing a therapist or something. But to do that would be to call attention to his shame, and MJ knew—from personal experience—that the last thing Peter wanted was to act as if anything was happening at all.

From down the hallway the freak of their bedroom door opening alerted her to Peter having finally gotten out of bed. 

Mary Jane’s head snapped up. Her face was wet with tears—the frustrated kind. The kind that came from feeling completely licked and not knowing how to possibly move forward. Helplessness stole over her, cold and crawling like a swarm of ants. She felt reduced, diminished...

Victimized.

And if there was one thing that roused Mary Jane Watson to action, it was being made to feel a victim. 

Fuck it. Fuck the whole thing to the lowest, foulest depths of the Hell it had crawled out of. Call it out. Grab it by the tail...use the demon’s name to gain power over it.

She heard Peter pad down the hall; felt his presence as he stepped into their kitchen. He let out a yawn, like a lion woken after a satiating slumber. MJ used the interval to quickly wipe at her eyes. 

Then she turned around and surveyed him as he walked towards her with a bleary-eyed, “Morning, baby.” 

Screw what anyone said. There wasn’t a goddamn thing wrong with Peter Parker. Whether his waist was a size twenty-eight or forty-eight. The fuck did it matter? The body aged. It broke down and decayed. Anyone who thought that image was everything could get bent into a pretzel shape and eaten alive by a rabid sewer rat.

Compelled by rushing love, MJ slid from her chair and crossed the room. She flung her arms around Peter’s neck, pulled his head towards her, and crushed her lips against his. He hadn’t shaved in a few weeks, but like everything else, she didn’t mind. The scratch of his beard against her skin was like fire in the cold, making her skin tingle.

Her fingers curled into the front of his tank top. He’d taken to wearing shirts to bed since he’d started getting bigger, and it made Mary Jane want to scream in outrage. 

The sturdy softness of his belly pressed against her. Out of instinct, he circled his arms around her. He was still strong, and if anything, the very moreness of him made her feel even more safe and secure than she ever had when he’d had his typical feline build. 

Fuck superficial people, Mary Jane thought, her tongue darting into his mouth and rendering him breathless. And fuck any part of me that thinks about appearances ever again...although how she was going to explain that to her agents was a mystery for the ages.

When they broke apart, she found Peter’s face to be as red as the dawn outside.

He smiled a little—a facsimile of his usual cheer. “Well well well,” he said, “if that ain’t a way to greet the day.” 

MJ wrapped her arms around him. It felt like hugging a grizzly bear—as if she were embracing something purely in his element, something that pulsed with heat and strength. Her face pressed into his chest, she murmured, “Folgers has nothing on me for being the best part of waking up.”

Peter chuckled. But she felt him tense—felt hard the muscle beneath the gentle cloud of him brace for a need to move. “MJ,” he said, trying to squirm away. His heart beat a nervous rhythm that made her want to curse the world. “Come on, I’ve gotta make my smoothie.”

Mary Jane narrowed her eyes, and held on tighter. She all but curled her fingers into the ripe flesh of his back. “You touch that NutriBullet and I’ll turn you from a rooster to a hen.”

“Hey now.” And again he chuckled, and again, it did little to display any kind of humor. “What have you got against kale and whey powder?”

“Everything.”

“Baby, really...”

“How about I make us some waffles? And eggs? We can have cantaloupe with it.”

“That’s a little—

“Hey, why did the melons have a big wedding ceremony?”

“What?”

“Because they can’t elope. Get it?”

Flexing the super strength he still possessed, Peter held her at arms length. Chin jutted in defiance, MJ stared him down.

“What’s the big idea? You haven’t had a problem with me having a liquid diet before.”

MJ took a breath. This was going to hurt, but she had to get it out of the way. “Are the smoothies doing anything to make you feel better about yourself? Or is it just something you’ve taken to for the hell of it?” 

Peter blinked. The shame that clouded his eyes made Mary Jane want to fling herself out of the nearest window. But she wasn’t going to let this thing dwell in their home any longer. Not when they had other battles to fight.

He turned around and headed for the kitchen nook, not meeting her gaze.

“I thought it might help,” he said.

“You don’t need any help.” 

“I kind of do.”

Taking another stealing breath, MJ said, “And why is that?”

Peter rounded on her. Something choked his voice, something that made the tigress in Mary Jane growl in rage. Peter’s eyes went a little brighter; his shoulders tensed as if he to flee the scene or fling a blow. But to his credit, he stood is ground. He always did when it came to it—one of the multitudes he possessed that made MJ love him all the more.

“In case it’s escaped your attention,” he said, “I’m half the man I used to be, only it’s less of an implosion and more an expansion.” He snorted. “Guess I’m not the only star under this roof, huh?”

Mary Jane took a breath to steady herself. Otherwise she would have blundered forward and made a mess of an area already suffering from disaster. 

“Don’t do that.” Calm as she tried to be, the hurt and frustration proved quick evacuees from the meltdown zone in her chest. 

“Do what?” 

“Self-deprecate. It’s not funny.”

Peter scoffed, arms folded. Really, the change in his appearance was nothing to write home about. He was nowhere near the level of Kingpin. Honestly, what with the facial hair and curve in his tummy he looked truly wild—an untamed beast of the forest; a forager; a hunter. If people truly were driven by primeval instincts, then men like Peter were simply a sign that there was bounty to be found. 

“Everyone else finds it chuckle worthy,” he said. 

“And tell me, tiger—when have you ever known me to do what everyone else is doing?”

“High school, maybe?”

“Yes because clearly we’re both still the people we were when we were sixteen.”

“I’m about twice—

MJ held a hand up. “Save it. It’s not funny. I don’t care that smart aleck quips are in your wheelhouse. In case it’s escaped your capacious attention span, there are no villains under this roof.”

Peter ran a hand over his face. He gazed at a spot on the floor for a moment—a moment so long that it nearly made Mary Jane tear her hair out of her scalp. 

“It’s all I can do,” he said. He sounded so defeated—so small and yet simultaneously furious. No wonder, then, MJ thought, that men had such a tough time being emotionally verbose. Anger was the one thing they were given a free pass on. To blend it with deeper vulnerabilities was probably as confusing as the Riemann hypothesis. And the really twisted thing about it, she knew, was that it didn’t even need to be. 

“It’s the only defense mechanism I have, MJ. It’s like I’m back in Midtown High again. Only this time instead of being smart to cope, I have to be funny. I feel like I’m failing—like I’m letting you down—like I’m letting everyone down.” 

“Failing? What kind of twisted, dissonant thinking brought you to that line of reasoning?”

“I’m a hero, MJ!” His voice tore in syncopation with Mary Jane’s heart. “I’m a...I’m a man!” He gestured uselessly at his body. “This is not how either of those things are supposed to look!”

“Says who?” 

“Everyone!” 

“Fuck everyone!” MJ was yelling now. Peter froze, evidently having not expected her to meet his level. “Anyone who just sees this—just the body—and thinks that’s where the value is can kiss my ass. And yours too. That’s no what it’s about, Peter. That’s never been what it’s about, and if you think for a second that you’re not good enough for me like this, then frankly, I’m a little offended.” Her fingers curled into fists, nails digging into her palms. She didn’t want to make this about her, because it wasn’t. “I love you, and it doesn’t matter to me how you look or what anyone else thinks of you. But if you’re not good enough for yourself right now then that’s on you to fix. Just remember that there’s one insignificant number among these supposed multitude of superficial assholes who could care less about the size of you.”

He looked as if she’d just punched him in the nose. Neither of them moved or spoke for. Peter’s chest heaved. Mary Jane didn’t know if anything she said had gotten through to him. The issue didn’t seem quite as titanic to her now—she only prayed that Peter saw it that way. 

“You can’t,” he said, his voice soft as snow, “you can’t mean that...”

Something snapped within MJ—tension pulled beyond capacity for reason. With a growl, she strode to the counter, seized a pair of culinary scissors, and bore down on the man who’d made the mistake of thinking he could tell her how and what to feel. 

Peter’s face went pale down to the very roots of his beard. Mary Jane shoved him bodily against the counter, and held the blade of the scissors inches from his chin. 

“You do not move,” she said, voice deadly as a she-bear. She slid the scissors down his chest, over the curve of his stomach, and paused at the hem of that stupid white muscle shirt. “Do you understand me?” 

Peter gulped. He looked frightened. Good. Let something get through that thick head of his for a change.

Mary Jane’s lips curled into a triumphant smile. With careful precision, she cut into the fabric of his tank top. Up and up the blade went, tearing a line through the middle of his clothes. His skin spread before her, smooth as a pear save for the sparse hairs dusting the roundness of his belly. Only when she’d tore the offending garment completely from him did she relent, and only then to tear the flimsy fabric from him.

She tossed it to the floor. 

He stood before her, fingers curled, eyes averted. 

“You’re smooth,” she said, running her free hand over his neck, and further down to his chest. Her palm splayed over his pectoral—ever-so slightly more pliable than before, certainly. Yet behind the velvet she felt what mattered most—the thrumming of his heart. “Why can’t you and the rest of polite society see beyond?” 

Peter let out a low, masculine grunt. “‘Cause we’re dumb as the dust we came from?”

“Look at that.” She tweaked his nipple, playing with the hard nub and reveling in the gasp it elicited. “A simple solution to a complex question. Don’t know why I’m surprised. That’s one of the things you do, Mr. Brainiac. Oh, but wait...” The tip of the scissors chase down his chest, along the wreathe of his abdomen and came to rest on the elastic line around his hips. 

Peter swallowed. MJ pressed closer to him. With her housecoat open and nothing but a pair of booty shorts on, she knew he could feel her—the raw, aching slickness of her thighs. She rubbed against him, smirking as he uttered a gasp. He was already hard beneath his baggy pajama bottoms. 

“G-going to castrate me?” 

“Oh, tiger, no.” She slipped the scissors between the waistband. “Why would I do that?” She had to crouch to cut along the leg of his pants. She inhaled the scent of his arousal even through the thin layer of fabric, and it made her throb. But he still had to learn his lesson. 

The seam split once she reached the ankle of his pants. MJ tugged, and a moment later, he was completely exposed to her. His cock arched, straining, the curve of it resting near the softness of his belly. 

“Look at that,” Mary Jane said, standing slowly. “None the worse for wear.”

“It’s not as—

A swift parting of the scissors was all it took to silence him.

“As someone intimately acquainted with this pretty little thing—“ she gave a teasing tap to his rosy glans. Peter started, but stated obediently still. “—I’ll be the judge of whether or not it’s changed...as if I give much of a damn about how big you are in any department.” She hoisted herself onto the counter, set the scissors down, shrugged her house coat off and let her legs part, the better for him to see how tantalizing wet she was for him. Given how he groaned—judging from the way his cock jumped—he found the view to his tastes. 

“I’ve often thought,” MJ sighed, drawing a line from her thigh to her shorts, “that the difficulty of living in the modern world is fighting against all our more outdated instincts.” Her fingers inches below the line of fabric, brushing over her damp curls. A spasm of pleasure fluttered through her. “As someone who has to think about the way I look constantly, I’ve started to realize just how stupid it is to base your perception on what you see.”

Through teeth clenched by the very restraint it took not to act on the desire pulsing through his body, Peter said, “What I see looks pretty damn good.” 

“Likewise.” She toyed with her folds, heat radiating up and down her body. She moaned, long and loud, knowing that it was driving him insane. “Mmm...hear that, tiger? Hear how much I want you?” 

“Yes.” He growled again.

MJ laughed. “Someone’s engine is revving...but you’re not a car, are you? Or maybe you are...you’ve gotta body...the body’s just what carries you around. Seems to me like the man behind the wheel is a little unfit to be steering right now...” She ground the small of her palm against her clit, and tossed her head at the throb of need. “Oh fuck, Peter. I wish you could feel how much I want you right now.”

“MJ...” It was almost a whine. She saw his wrist twitch. He wanted to stroke that thick cock of his; to rush forward and claim her. But he was still being punished. And if he didn’t learn his lesson, she wasn’t about to give in. 

“Touch yourself,” she rasped. When he reached for his length, she added a defiant “No. Not there. Not yet.” She tilted her chin, her fingers still buried in her own slick heat. “Touch your tummy, tiger.”

She saw the hesitation in his eyes. But like the obedient thing he was, he listened. He ran his hands over his belly, unsure, awkward. 

“Like you mean it.” MJ leaned forward, breathless with anticipation. “Like you’re touching me.” 

His Adam’s Apple bobbed. He ghosted his fingers over the bowing skin, caressing across the dark speckle of hairs. 

“Higher,” MJ panted. “Your chest now...feel it...” 

He obeyed. His palms slipped across his pecs. 

“Close your eyes,” Mary Jane said. God, she was dying from need for him. It had been so long since he’d really touched her like he had before. But she wasn’t about to go to bed with some one who wasn’t willing to love themselves.

Peter tilted his chin to the ceiling, his eyes closed. He continued to feel himself before her, exposed, accepting. 

“What do you feel, Peter?” 

“I feel...myself...” He sounded almost awed at his own words. “I feel you...watching me...”

“Good.” Every pulse vibrated, making her mind reel. 

His eyes opened. He looked at her with such rawness it nearly made her stop the intimate plumbing her own body. “I just...it’s worrying me...I’m not happy with _me_...”

Mary Jane gave him a smile. “Then we’ll work on that. But don’t think for a second that I’m one of those people who expects you to look a certain way. I love you too much for that.” 

He smiled, a genuine thing—one that nearly had her falling apart. MJ slid from the countertop, and peeled her shorts down just enough to grant him access. She withdrew her hand from her wet pussy. “Right now,” she panted, “I really need you to get over here and fuck me like you love me.” 

He came to her like a thirsting man to a water well. When he made to turn her around, she shook her head. 

“No,” she said. She wasn’t going to be taken from behind. “I’m not a dog. I want to see you. I want to look at you.” Her hand gripped his cock, so steely from his pent up need that it was already leaking at the tip. “And you use your regular strength.” 

“But—

She grabbed a handful of his ass—solid but still ample, like the hindquarters of a stallion. She pulled him forwards, his cock poised at her slick entrance. "Yes,” she said, “ _butt_. And if there’s one thing I appreciate about you being a little fluffier it’s this bubbly piece of ass.” 

He grinned, arms around her neck, nose inches from her own. 

“Really?”

“As real as real can be.” She hitched her legs around his waist, and he barely wobbled. “See? Perfectly strong.” Her lips teased the head of his cock. He groaned, burying his face in her shoulder. 

“Please...” He rasped. 

“Like you need to ask.” 

With a laugh that turned to a growl, he entered her. Mary Jane let out a squeal of delight at the feel of his size. Her fingers curled into his flesh, her teeth nearly split her lip. 

“There’s so much now,” she gasped as he rocked into her. “So much to hold...so much to touch...” 

“And you...like it?” His eyes were fixed on hers, seeing deeper than he could reach with his body. 

“I love it.” And she really did. It was different—not there had been anything wrong with him before. But this—in that she’d helped him overcome something—in that she helped him think beyond the limits of appearance and physicality—meant something to her on a level that sex hadn’t really before. 

“You feel...so fucking incredible...” Peter gasped. “So tight...so warm for me...”

“Peter!” She held him, his cock filling her. Hovered on the precipice, she threw her weight against him. 

“Ah, fuck.” The sound of his skin against hers filled the air. “MJ...”

“Yes, tiger. Yes!” 

His knees shook. They fell to the ground, Peter still holding her for all she was worth and more. Her body squeezed him as she came, tight and sloppy and so right. 

He slid from her not a moment too soon. Ropes of white semen jetted from his cock with such force that it splattered against his chin. MJ laughed, the afterglow so overpowering she was helpless against anything else.

And Peter laughed as well, his body shaking. MJ curled against him, loving the warmth and shelter. A solid arm curled around her, and she felt safer than if she’d been in a bank vault. 

“Thank you,” he said. His lips brushed hers, tender as a flower petal. “I wasn’t enjoying that spiral.” 

“That’s what I’m here for, hot stuff.” She traced a lazy finger over his chest. “I guess I’ll have to say goodbye to the teddy bear some day, huh?”

“Yeah.” He glanced at her quickly. “Unless you want—

“It’s not about what I want, remember? Whatever makes you feel good.” 

He exhaled slowly. “The funny thing is...this kinda made me see it differently. It could be good, if I let it be.” He shook his head. “It’d be a lot easier if I didn’t have to pour myself into that stupid costume...but I guess you know what it’s like. To be held to those standards.”

Mary Jane snuggled against him. Really, it did feel like she was cozied up to the world’s snuggest stuffed animal. Only hers had a pulse and a heart and big, sexy brain. “Yeah, I do. But that’s where you get to figure it out for yourself.” 

Peter poked at his tummy. “Well...after this, maybe I’ll pack a little extra. Just for you.” 

MJ closed her eyes, satiated to the very core of her. “You’re too good to me.” 

“You’re better.” 

They lay together. The gentle ebb and flow of his breathing soon lulled her to sleep. She fell through disjointed dreams, imagining herself as Rose Red with the prince transfigured into the shape of bear. The creature rose on his hind legs, magnificent and beautiful. He drew closer, his big wet nose inches from her own. They would kiss, and he would turn into his human self, but he wouldn’t be some stupid fairy tale version of beauty. He would be himself and she would love him for it against all—

“Mary Jane.”

Her eyes fluttered open. She was lying on the sofa, a fleece throw around her body. Confused, she stared around. Peter stood over her, still gloriously naked. He must have moved her after she’d dozed off. Judging by the thunderous frown on his face, he wasn’t amused by whatever had happened.

“What’s going on?” She looked around blearily. 

Peter shook an envelope at her. “I just got a subpoena regarding you assaulting someone at a charity dinner.” He crooked an eyebrow. “What the hell happened?” 

Right. Reality.

With a shrug, Mary Jane said, “Would you believe I did it protect your honor?”

Peter’s lips twitched but he didn’t allow himself to smile. “This is a serious problem.”

“I can worm my way out of it. I’ve got Jessica Chastain as a character witness.” 

“Jessica Chast—what the hell? Am I going to have to put a leash on you?”

“Kinky. I like it.” 

He really did smile this time. With a sigh, he dropped the letter on the dining room table, and padded over to where she sat. “Kinky? Is that what you want?”

“Did I not just come at you with a pair of scissors?”

“Oh yes...” He scooped her up, over his shoulder, making her laugh. “Now that you mention it, you did...looks like some punishment is in order.”

MJ sighed in delight as he carried her down the hall to their bedroom. “As long as it’s you doing it, I could care less.” 

**Author's Note:**

> As a reader of romance novels, I appreciate the trend of curvy women being featured more and more. Body positivity is important. And while I do understand that the hunky muscledaddy is part of the wish fulfillment of the genre, I can’t help but feel that in the Year of Our Lord (Jessica Chastain) 2020, we could stop the reductive way we treat bigger men in our society.


End file.
